


Nothing But Yes

by marginaliana



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service RPF
Genre: Author regrets nothing, Breathplay, Get Together, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multi, everyone is poly and nothing hurts, shameless id-fic, so I guess this is the natural result of that, someone once described me as having fallen down a spiral of Colin Firth fandom, this is just porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marginaliana/pseuds/marginaliana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Filming the train track scene only takes an afternoon, but with Colin's eyes on him, to Taron it feels like forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing But Yes

**Author's Note:**

> This is fiction and it never happened. Really. A million thanks to emef for the beta.

Filming the train track scene only takes an afternoon, but to Taron it feels like forever. At first it's all systems normal. He makes cheerful small talk with the crew as they shuttle him into place and get things ready, mentally runs through his lines – such as they are – a few times. Janelle crouches down beside him to tie his hands to the tracks, and over her shoulder Taron sees Colin slipping onto the back of the set, still suited up to Harry's appropriate level of perfection from the morning's work and now carrying a bottle of water. Colin catches Taron's eye, offers him a quick smile. Taron smiles back. Then Janelle asks him to test the give of the ropes and Taron turns his focus dutifully back to her.

For a while, he forgets about Colin.

They roll film, run the bits of dialogue from various angles and with different types of emphasis. And slowly, inexorably, Taron finds himself being drawn back. Not because of what Colin's doing – he's too much a professional to draw the eye with a thoughtless gesture when someone else is in front of the camera – but because of what he isn't doing. He isn't smiling, isn't chatting with anyone between takes, isn't checking his phone or flipping through a copy of the script. He's just watching Taron, with that sort of genial impassivity that he sometimes wears when he's thinking intensely about something. His eyes never seem to stray from Taron, other than the occasional flicker of awareness as the crew moves around him.

Taron keeps himself on target, but it's a struggle. There's something about Colin's stillness that makes him the center of the room; it's a technique Taron's seem him use in films (his in-depth knowledge of Colin's body of work is probably not worth thinking about), but never in real life, and he can't quite tell if it's deliberate or not. On the whole, he thinks not – professionalism again – but it almost doesn't matter. His gaze goes back to Colin at the end of each take, nonetheless, waiting for approval or disapproval. 

Mostly he doesn't get either of them, just more of that steady look, but it's enough to warm him right through. Colin's been so lovely to him over the course of filming: making him feel welcome, offering small bits of advice when it seems like he might want it, telling him entertaining stories about places he's been or talking with him about theatre whenever they're between takes. They're genuinely friends, at least as far as Taron's concerned, but there's still a certain amount of hero worship that he hasn't got over. Maybe he'll never get over it.

At least he's not entirely alone in this; he catches some of the crew at it, too, darting little sidelong glances in Colin's direction to make sure they're not getting in his way, like it's as important for him to get a good view of the proceedings as it is for the cameras. The whole atmosphere feels – despite Matthew being actually in charge – almost as if they were all merely here to do Colin's bidding, as if all of this was just an elaborate set up because he enjoyed watching Taron squirm.

It's this thought that makes Taron realize he really is squirming, and he twitches himself into stillness just as Matthew looks up from the monitor with a smile and a nod. He thinks maybe Colin has noticed, too, because that considering look slides into something ever so faintly different, something assessing. It's a look that makes Taron's skin prickle all over, tip to toe. It's not as if he didn't know that being watched does it for him, but it's maybe the first time he's considered that being restrained might do it, too, being controlled. Probably he should have considered it before, because it makes a hell of a lot of sense; it's all tied up – pun intended – with the stuff that's made him an actor in the first place: being in touch with his body, having limits, the thrill of making himself vulnerable. 

And he _is_ vulnerable – at one point, Colin lifts a hand to his mouth and rubs two fingers across his bottom lip, thoughtful, and Taron jerks against the rope restraints in a completely involuntary movement. He's never been as grateful as now for the bagginess of Eggsy's trackies. The realization adds a certain edge of danger to his acting. Because, okay, yeah, he can imagine what it's like to be tied up and terrified because he thinks he's going to die. But somehow it seems immensely more terrifying to be tied up and thinking that any minute now he's going to humiliate himself by popping an obvious boner in front of someone he really admires. It's next level terrifying, is what it is. It's fucking quantum-level terrifying.

He gets through the rest of the shoot somehow, nevermind the way he's sweating or the fact that – despite Janelle's best efforts to make everything as comfortable as possible – he's ended up chafing himself a little on the ropes. When she finally unties everything it's obvious he's going to have marks, and she makes a pained noise of disapproval at him.

″You should have said something!″ Janelle says, dismayed. 

″Nah, s'all right,″ Taron says. ″Barely even noticed it, to be honest. I'll be fine.″ 

″Let me at least give you something for it,″ she says, and she looks so worried that he nods and waits patiently, sipping at a bottle of water, while she digs through a med kit. Eventually she finds an appropriate ointment, and after a bit of back and forth she hands it over for him to apply himself. 

″Ta,″ Taron says, and gives her shoulder a nudge. ″No worries, we're done for today and I'll be right as rain in the morning. Promise.″

When she's satisfied that he isn't going to keel over and die he swaps back into his own clothes and then there's just Matthew to handle, a few reminders of what they'll be doing tomorrow and of things he wants Taron to think about in preparation. Nothing substantial, nothing critical, and so Taron notes it all without really paying attention – to be honest, he's more interested in having a quiet couple of hours to himself, having a truly epic wank, and then dinner.

But when Matthew finishes and bustles off, Colin's still there. Taron's surprised, actually, that he hasn't left during all the post-filming fuss – he might have left hours ago, really, since they wouldn't have needed him for anything else, but clearly he'd been getting something out of watching. And now, when Colin meets his eyes, all he does is smile and tip his head in the direction of the trailers.

 _Fuck_ , Taron thinks, because having Colin in such close quarters with him is really going to put a strain on his ability to pretend everything is normal. But on the other hand, it's not as if he's going to say no. So he smiles and nods, and the two of them walk together off the set without speaking, down the hallways and then out across the back lot to the little cluster of trailers set at the back of the fenced-off car park. Taron digs out his keys and unlocks the door, then ushers Colin in ahead of him in his best gentlemanly manner.

″You did well today, I thought,″ Colin says, breaking the silence at last. He settles into the trailer's lone chair. Taron feels himself go red, though he isn't sure whether it's because of the praise or the reminder that Colin feels comfortable in his space.

″Thanks, Col,″ he says, kicking off his shoes. ″That scene wasn't exactly Hamlet, though. Just a bit of terror and defiance.″

Colin snorts. ″Still,″ he says. ″Matthew told me once that he felt that scene was critical – he wanted to be sure to cast someone whom the audience would genuinely fear for, in that moment. You do a lovely job of balancing Eggsy's strength with his vulnerability, which I think is just what is needed.″

By now Taron's face must be the color of a ripe tomato; Colin isn't usually this direct with his praise. But it's good – somehow, it's just what he'd needed to hear after being tied up all afternoon, stretched taut physically and emotionally. He ducks his head. ″Thanks.″

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and rediscovers the tube of ointment in his pocket. He pulls it out and gives it a waggle. ″Guess I'd better put this stuff on, otherwise Janelle's going to give me a bollocking in the morning.″ He tugs his sleeves up, absent-minded, and barely notices that Colin has pushed himself up out of the chair until suddenly Colin is right there, only inches away, catching Taron's left arm between his hands. 

″My dear boy,″ Colin says. There is some suppressed emotion in his voice – probably horror, Taron thinks, insofar as he can think about anything at all beyond the press of Colin's skin, so very, very warm against his own. ″What have you done to yourself?″

″Just a bit of bruising,″ Taron says. He's amazed when his voice comes out steady. ″It'll be right as rain tomorrow. Who'd'a known ropes could chafe that much?″ It's a poor attempt at lightheartedness, and he's not surprised when Colin ignores it entirely.

″Let me help you,″ Colin says, snatching the tube of ointment out of Taron's hands. He twists the cap of the tube off – and Christ, that shouldn't be as erotic as it is, watching Colin's elegant fingers moving competently through this small, completely mundane task – and squeezes a bit of ointment onto his fingers, then takes Taron's hand in his, turns it over to bare his wrist.

Taron sucks in a breath. All of it has happened so quickly, and he finds himself desperately, almost painfully aroused at the touch. They are too close – he can smell the faint, familiar mix of makeup and cold cream, can see the lines at the corners of Colin's eyes, wrinkled up in concentration. Colin's hand is warm, a stark contrast to the cool air, and his lips are pressed together, thinned, in concentration or perhaps irritation, Taron can't quite tell which. It would be so easy to lean in, press their mouths together and taste those lips, let Colin shove him down into the sheets and just take whatever he wanted. 

Except there's the rub, isn't it? Because Colin couldn't possibly want any of it, not a kiss or anything more. Colin likes women, Colin's _married_ , for fuck's sake. The only thing it would accomplish is ruining a friendship that Taron's come to treasure.

″Don't—″ he says. ″You don't have to—″ His breath is coming too short now, his agitation almost certainly obvious. At least there's a full three inches between their hips, so he can convince himself that Colin can't tell how quite aroused he is. He probably just thinks Taron's embarrassed, or tired, or a prickly patient when he's injured.

″I'd like to,″ Colin says. He dabs the ointment on with such care that Taron has to bite the inside of his cheek against a sting of something even more dangerous than arousal. ″My dear boy,″ he says again, warm, almost tender. ″You really must take better care of yourself.″

And suddenly Taron cannot stand it, absolutely cannot bear to be so close and yet so far for even one second longer. He yanks his arm out of Colin's grasp, pushes past him to the window and lays his trembling hands onto the thin sill.

"Taron—" 

"For fuck's sake, Collywobbles," Taron says, because it's hopeless trying to hang onto his dignity, he can see that now. "Don't let me make even more of a fool of myself than I have already."

There is a beat of silence. The blinds are down so Taron doesn't even have anything to look at except the thin metal slats, dust beginning to collect on them like London fog on a hot summer skyline. Then Colin crosses the three paces between them and sets the palm of his hand to the nape of Taron's neck.

Taron turns to look at him – how could he not? – and then they're kissing, hot and slick and urgent. It's the kind of kiss that leaves no room for embarrassment or anxiety – for anything, really, other than the heated demands of Colin's lips, tongue, teeth. His hand seems impossibly large against Taron's neck, fingertips pressing in like fluorescent lights coming on in sequence, one-two-three-four, and his thumb just brushes against Taron's hairline in a way that makes every part of him want to stand on end. Taron groans and melts into the touch, lets himself be pulled close and kissed and kissed until his lips are buzzing from it. 

Just when he's beginning to think he can take no more, Colin draws Taron's head back, exposing the line of his neck. Then Colin's mouth is sliding wetly across his jaw, pressing one open-mouthed kiss after another to flushed skin. Taron is gasping now, sucking in jagged breaths. He can barely think what to do with himself, but he doesn't need to. Colin knows what he's doing. 

It's this thought that at last, perversely, breaks through the lush fog that has wrapped itself around Taron's brain. Yes, Colin knows what he's doing. That's because he's fucking _married_. Which makes all of this, brilliant as it is, actually kind of horrible. ″ _Wait_ ,″ Taron gasps. ″Wait.″ Colin's mouth stutters to a halt halfway through the next kiss, and he jerks his head up so that he can look Taron in the eye. It's the hardest thing Taron's ever done to wrestle himself out of Colin's arms and take a step back. 

″Taron—″

″Livia,″ Taron says. Colin looks startled, and so Taron stumbles onwards. ″She— I won't. I _can't_.″

He doesn't know what reaction to expect, but it certainly isn't the slow smile spreading across Colin's face. ″A moment,″ Colin says, and then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone.

 _What?_ Taron thinks, his mouth falling open. _Is he— He can't be doing what I think he's doing._ But Colin is doing it; they are standing so close that Taron can hear the sound of the ring through the phone, the murmur of Livia's voice when she answers.

″Darling,″ Colin says warmly. There is a lock of hair on the left side of his forehead that's beginning to curl up, ever so slightly. ″Do you have a moment to reassure Taron that he isn't taking unwonted liberties?″

Livia says something in reply, but Taron can't quite make out the words.

″Oh, no, I kissed him,″ Colin says. ″I'm afraid I couldn't help myself.″ It's not a man making an excuse for infidelity; instead, it's a shared intimacy. Livia says something else. Colin says, ″Yes, I'm sure you're right. But you tell him that.″ He holds the phone out. 

Taron takes it gingerly and lifts it to his ear. ″Erm,″ he says. ″Hey, Livia. How's it going?″

Her laugh is like a caress, and it stirs his arousal back to life in a way that feels more than a little alarming. They've only met twice, but she's so beautiful that he can picture her in his mind even now.

″Hello, Taron. I'm very well, thank you. And yourself?″

″Erm. Fine? A bit confused, I suppose.″

″I'm sure. Poor boy.″ Somehow that isn't insulting. ″But it's quite all right, you know.″

″Is it?″

″It is.″ She sounds calm, certain. ″If you want to kiss him, you may.″

″And what if... I want to do more than that?″ Taron asks, feeling suddenly daring, as if a bit of her confidence is seeping through the phone and into all the trembling parts of him. He meets Colin's eyes and swallows hard at the desire he sees there. 

″Oh, you certainly may do more. You may do anything you like.″ A pause, while he considers the implications of that. ″He'll tell me all about it, of course,″ she says. ″Would that bother you?″

Taron squirms, but he has to admit that he doesn't find the idea off-putting. Not at all. ″No,″ he says. ″No, I'd like it.″

″He'll tell me about the noises you make,″ she says. ″About the flush on your cheeks. About the way you shudder when he kisses your thighs, the way you beg for his mouth or his prick.″

″Yeah,″ Taron says, and he almost doesn't recognize the sound of his own voice. ″Yeah. I want him to.″ He's hard again, cock throbbing softly in time with his heartbeat. 

″I'm looking forward to it,″ she says, and then, soft, coaxing, ″Go on. Hang up the phone and say yes.″

″Yes,″ Taron breathes, and then he hangs up the phone and looks Colin in the eye and says it again. ″Yes.″

Colin takes the phone out of his hand, sets it on the counter behind him without looking. The easy confidence of it makes Taron moan softly.

″Come here,″ Colin says. Taron goes. It's really only one step, the work of not even a second to close the gap between them. Colin gathers him in, puts one hand on the small of his back to hold him there while the other comes up to stroke his cheek. ″You'll let me take care of you?″ he asks, low and soft. 

It's not really the kind of question Taron usually gets asked, just before he has sex with someone. But right now he can smell the faint tang of the ointment on Colin's fingers, and it makes something knot up hard and tight in his chest. It makes him want it, maybe more than he's ever wanted anything. ″Yeah,″ he says. ″Please.″

″ _Christ_ ,″ says Colin. He kisses Taron then – fiercely, and yet with such sweetness that Taron has to let his eyes flutter shut against the force of it. It's a good kiss, a great kiss, even better than their first simply because he doesn't have to fight it. All he has to do is give himself over. 

And so he does. Colin licks into his mouth, teases and tastes him until Taron is gasping. It's focused, relentless; Taron has to lift a hand to curl around Colin's bicep just to steady himself. Colin tugs him in even closer then, parting his legs so that Taron comes to rest between them. The movement brings Taron's cock flush against the bulge in Colin's trousers and he groans at the rush of heat, breaking the kiss in order to tip his head back and bare his neck.

″Good?″ Colin says, his voice thick as winter honey. He rolls his hips forward, sending a wave of pleasure shivering through Taron's body. 

″Y— yes,″ Taron says. It's beginning to feel like that's all he'll ever say. Maybe he doesn't even know any other words than 'yes'; maybe he wouldn't need them if he did. ″ _Yes_.″

Colin groans and peppers wet kisses over Taron's cheek, his jaw, then down the line of his neck into the hollow of his collarbone. Taron arches into it, shuddering from the roughness of Colin's stubble rasping over his skin. He's dizzy. 

They are rocking together now, a slide of body against body. Colin licks a path up Taron's neck, teasing at his Adam's apple and then up to Taron's ear, taking the lobe between his teeth. Taron sucks in a sharp breath, groaning, his hand clenching even tighter on Colin's arm. There's muscle there, an unexpected solidity, an anchor against the whirlwind of sensation and the frantic battering of his own heartbeat. 

If this were anyone else he'd be fighting for control. If this were anyone else, he'd be trying to get them off already. But this is _Colin_ , who seems to know exactly what he wants, who seems perfectly content to carry on kissing Taron for minute upon minute, licking him, tasting him, wringing endless rough noises from his throat while Taron just… holds on.

When Colin does move at last, it's only to draw Taron back with him, towards the bed. ″All right?″ 

Taron makes himself breathe deeply, in and then out. ″Yeah,″ he says, a fraction more in control now that there's an inch or so between them. He opens his eyes just as Colin stops with the backs of his knees to the bed and then sits in one smoothly graceful movement. From there Colin comes into sharp focus against the blurred backdrop of the bed, the wall, the window: still in that fucking suit but his hair is a little bit tousled now, his cheeks pink and his lips puffy from kissing. He's gorgeous. Taron wants to kiss him again, wants to get his hands in Colin's hair and mess him all up, wants to go down on his knees and thumb open those trousers and get his mouth on Colin's cock. He even gets as far as leaning half an inch forward before Colin's hand fastens onto his hip, stilling him in place. Taron can feel the heat of him even through the fabric of his jeans.

″Stay,″ Colin says – mildly, as if he's expecting Taron to obey without question. As if he doesn't even need to raise his voice. 

Taron stays, though a shiver runs through him. His cock is heavy, thick and aching just from kissing, just from this almost dispassionate touch – he can only imagine how aroused he's going to be once they're naked, skin on skin. Colin takes his hand away and starts unfastening the buttons of Taron's shirt from the bottom up, swift and competent. His fingertips brush over the skin he's revealing; Taron shivers again at the cool air, at the touch, at his own bareness, at the look in Colin's eyes that is somewhere between reverence and tease. His shirtfronts part and Taron shrugs the shirt off over his shoulders, letting Colin draw it down his arms. He winces a little when Colin gets to his wrists – they're still tender – and the touch gentles instantly. 

″Does it hurt very badly?″ Colin asks. He works the shirt free at last, carefully, lets it drop to the floor.

″I wouldn't mind it,″ Taron blurts, ″if you'd been the one to put them there.″

For a moment the only thing that moves is the widening of Colin's eyes. Then his hands go to Taron's hips, pulling him closer in one swift jerk. Taron stumbles against the bed, then lets himself be tugged up to straddle Colin's lap, hands braced against the wall behind his head. 

″You can't possibly know,″ Colin says, his voice low. ″You simply cannot know how much you tempt me.″ He kisses Taron's stomach, his chest, licks upwards and fastens his mouth onto Taron's left nipple, sucks hard enough that it almost hurts.

″Fuck,″ Taron says, hips twitching, and, ″please,″ and ″Colin. _Colin_.″ 

Colin grins up at him, his smile an obscene curve against Taron's skin. Taron's cock gives a massive throb at the sight of it; he's dripping precome now, sticky hot into his briefs. Colin sucks his nipple, bites him, a sizzling dart of pleasure. His hands slide down, in, tracing his thumbs over the distended bulge in Taron's trousers. The faint pressure is just enough to register, just enough to make Taron ache – and then it's gone as Colin reaches for his belt, slipping the leather through the buckle and then unfastening the button and zip of Taron's trousers. 

″Yeah,″ Taron says, breathy, desperate. ″Yeah, please, please—″ Colin tugs his trousers and briefs down, just enough to let his cock spring free. Taron groans at the release, groans even louder when Colin trails one fingertip down the underside of his cock and traces the curve of his balls. The expression on Colin's face is tight, focused – just like when they'd been back on the set, just like when Taron had been trussed up and spread out before him. It feels even more intense now, mainly because he's half-naked and Colin's still wearing that bloody suit.

Harry's suit.

″Shit,″ Taron says. ″I'm gonna—″ Colin's hand closes around him, gives him a long, thorough stroke, and he nearly loses the rest of the sentence. ″ _Colin._ Gonna wreck that suit if you're not careful.″

″Hang the suit,″ Colin growls, but after a moment he loosens his hand. Taron hears himself make a wordless noise at the loss of the touch. ″Shhh,″ Colin says, rubbing his palms over Taron's stomach. ″Dear boy. I'm being far too selfish, aren't I? I said I would take care of you and here I am, making you work so hard.″ He slides his hands up to Taron's shoulders, caressing the muscle there. ″Lie down,″ he says. 

Taron lets himself be guided sideways and then onto his back in the bed as Colin rolls out from underneath him. Colin arranges him just so against the pillows, hands lingering on Taron's hips before he tugs Taron's trousers and briefs down and off. It's breathtaking to be so bare under Colin's gaze, but Taron has only a moment to be terrified before Colin's warm hands are holding his, lifting his arms up above his head and setting his palms against the cool metal of the trailer wall. 

″Can you stay like that?″ Colin asks. ″For me?″

 _Fuck_ , Taron thinks. ″Yeah,″ he says thickly. ″Yeah. For you.″ For Colin, he can do anything.

And he gets to watch, like this, as Colin slowly undresses himself. First the suit jacket, thumbing the buttons through their buttonholes and then slipping out of the right sleeve and the left. He drapes the jacket across the back of the chair, turns his attentions to his tie. Taron finds himself dry-mouthed as Colin slips the tie off in one long slide of fabric. He removes his cufflinks one by one, dropping the pair of them onto Taron's bedside table with a faint click. Then he works through his shirt buttons, slowly exposing an expanse of pale skin. The muscles of his pecs, his biceps, come into sharp definition as he moves; Taron can remember how they'd felt underneath his palms.

The shirt joins the jacket as Colin toes off his shoes. His hands move to his belt next; there is something taut about the way he moves – nothing wasted. It makes Taron think of the scene in the church, a bit of film that Matthew had let him see as he recorded Eggsy's reaction. It's that same control, that same crispness. As if Colin owns every part of his own body, down to the very atoms. 

Colin steps out of his trousers, adding them to the neat collection on the back of the chair. When he straightens up again, Taron can see the evidence of his arousal distending the front of his boxer briefs. There is a wet spot, fluid seeping through the fabric. Taron wants to put his open mouth to the fabric, nuzzle it, breathe in the scent of him. He can imagine it vividly: Colin giving him just that much and no more. Rubbing his still-clothed cock across Taron's face, eyelids and cheeks and mouth, pushing the bulge of his cock between Taron's parted lips until he can taste mingled cotton and precome.

And then Colin pulls off his briefs at last, and Taron just stares. Colin's cock is solid and thick, rising from dark curls to flushed pink and full red at the tip where his foreskin flares. It's sticky wet already, precome dripping down the underside in a chain of fat droplets. If it weren't for the evidence of his taut shoulders, Taron suspects he might think this were a dream, a fevered imagining brought on by hitting his head during a stunt or just too many late night porn viewings.

Colin doesn't give Taron much time to look or worry, though; instead, he joins Taron on the bed, climbing up and then slinging one leg over to straddle his hips. The movement brings their bodies flush together, and Taron groans at the feeling of skin on skin. It's only been a few minutes, of course, but it already feels like forever since they've touched. Precome and sweat ease the slide of his cock against Colin's and Taron rocks up into it, feeling a shudder work its way through him. 

Colin groans, matching Taron's movement with a roll of his hips. ″Good,″ he says, barely a breath. He spreads his hands over Taron's stomach. ″ _Very_ good.″ Taron flushes hard at the praise, at the clear affection in his voice. He's never felt like this before, not really – he's had people he fancied, yes, and a few girlfriends and boyfriends who he'd cared about, of course. But none of them had made him feel like his blood was burning, like every inch of him was alive and awake.

He half expects one of Colin's hands to slide down, to curl callused and strong around his cock. But what he gets is just the brush of fingertips, light, drawing a series of long, slow swirls. It's almost as if Colin's writing his name across Taron's body, signing on some invisible dotted line to accept ownership of everything he can see and touch. Goosebumps break out all across Taron's arms and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end, electrified. 

The touch wanders upwards, across Taron's chest, teasing a nipple but not staying to give it the attention it suddenly, desperately desires. It takes a herculean effort of will for Taron to keep his hands where they are, still flat against the wall – not to reach up and pull Colin down on top of him, not to bury his face in Colin's shoulder and hold on forever. He can't remember ever being as aroused as this, as achingly hard, and especially not just from being looked at, just from being touched so lightly. His heart is hammering. Colin runs his palms up the underside of Taron's arms, lingering a little where the muscles flex with the strain of keeping still. And then he leans in, runs his hands over Taron's biceps and shoulders, the right hand sliding up until it's resting over his Adam's apple. He presses down, ever so slightly.

″Do you trust me?″ Colin says softly.

It takes Taron a long, stupefied moment to realize what he's being asked. _Oh, fuck._ He's heard of this, though he's never really thought of doing it himself, nor having it done to him. To be without air, without breath, even for a few moments – to put himself so deeply under the power of someone else: it's terrifying in an entirely new way, different from all the other ways he's been terrified so far today. But this is Colin, for whom he would do almost anything. 

″Yes,″ he says. ″Yes.″

Colin's eyes gleam darkly. ″Oh, my beautiful boy. Thank you.″ His thumb is caressing the skin of Taron's neck, an arc of shivering sensation. ″Have you done this before?″

Taron licks his dry lips. ″No. Not— that.″

″I will be careful with you,″ Colin promises. Desire is blossoming red on his cheeks. ″The only thing you need to remember is that if I hurt you, if it's too much, if you just want me to stop for whatever reason, all you have to do is drop your arms. I won't be angry or upset. All right?″

Taron nods.

″Good,″ Colin says. His hand presses down, just a little at first and then harder when Taron doesn't object. Taron tries to keep his breathing even, calm – or as calm as he even can be when he's naked with Colin, fucking hell – and for the first few moments all he really notices is the heat of Colin's skin, his palms, the places where their thighs touch. 

Slowly, slowly, the breaths come shorter in his throat. Not painful, but as if they are coming from further away each time, receding down into the depths of his chest. As if Colin's reached inside, his fingers curled around Taron's heart instead of just his neck. The sound of his heartbeat becomes a rush and then a dull roar in his ears; he can barely hear Colin's soft murmurs, ″Gorgeous,″ and, ″Yes, just like that,″ and, ″That's right, that's right. You're doing so well.″ There's a soft, floaty sort of feeling gathering around the edges of his mind.

Colin begins rocking his hips against Taron's, little teasing circles of friction that leave him shuddering and desperate. His free hand avidly caresses Taron's shoulders, his chest, coming back to play with his nipples in earnest now, pinching and twisting and rubbing them with the flat of his thumb. Heated pleasure rolls and stutters through him, half-lightning and half-wildfire. Taron jerks upwards into the touch, moaning – but the sound is choked in his throat. Colin's eyes get impossibly darker, and he presses down even harder. 

It ought to be frightening. But instead it just makes Taron's cock twitch, stuttering slickly against Colin's. There are little lights going off behind his eyes, sweat prickling down the back of his neck and his thighs, into the creases of his hips. He can't look away from Colin's face, from the lush, parted bow of his lips, his pink cheeks, the wild mass of his hair all curled up from the heat of their coupling. 

Finally, finally, Colin slides his free hand down between them, curls his palm and fingers around their cocks together. Taron groans, barely more than a gasp. Colin's cock is heated velvet, dripping precome onto his fingers. He strokes them together, a slow, delicious slide down and then back up, spreading slickness as he goes. It would be almost lazy if it weren't for the way he looks at Taron as he does it, eyes pitch-dark and greedy, drinking him in.

They rock together for long moments, Colin stroking them together with aching slowness. Taron's whole world narrows to that touch; he can feel every callus, every whorl of Colin's fingertips. His arms burn from holding position above his head and his breath is coming in jagged rasps, but the complaints are distant, almost unreachable beyond the eddies of pleasure that dance across his skin and the wild, dazzling race of his heartbeat. Colin's hand on his throat is moving in time to his thrusts, now looser so that Taron can suck in a shuddering breath, now tighter to send his mind winding higher and higher. Pleasure begins to build behind his navel, that clinging, reaching feeling that tells him he's close. 

It dawns on him, in his haze, that he doesn't want to come unless Colin says he can.

He catches Colin's eye, tries to put every ounce of desperation and pleasure and adoration into his expression that he can. ″Please,″ he mouths. He hasn't the breath to speak. ″Please.″ 

″Yes,″ Colin says instantly. ″Yes, Taron, yes. Come for me, darling,″ and he lets go of Taron's throat with one hand and strokes them together with the other, tight and sharp, in one swift, convulsive moment. The sudden inrush of air sings through Taron's chest, drags the orgasm up out of the pit of his stomach and sends it sizzling into his veins. The lights behind his eyes shatter into fireworks and he comes shuddering, gasping, pulsing hot and thick over Colin's fingers and cock and his own hips and stomach. 

The wave of pleasure passes and he collapses weakly back into the sheets. Above him Colin is still hard, thighs trembling where they press against Taron's hips. After a moment his hand begins to move again, stroking the two of them together though Taron's cock is softening rapidly – each stroke gives him a faint burn of sensation, almost painful but not quite. He writhes up into the touch and Colin groans, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. 

″Beautiful,″ Colin says. ″Look at you. Christ, if Liv could see you like this.″

The thought of Liv seeing him now makes Taron dizzier. He knows he must look, frankly, debauched – sweat-drenched and flushed, nipples peaked and sore, arms stretched up above his head with the rope marks still livid across his wrists and his stomach dripping with enough come that he's going to have to tip his cleaning service very heavily. And all of it under Colin's hands, his mouth. He'd rather like to be a fly on the wall when Colin tells her about it, that's for certain.

″What would she say?″ Taron rasps. He's still breathing hard, heartbeat only just beginning to ease, and it's difficult to speak. His head is swimming. 

″She'd say that you're gorgeous,″ says Colin. The movement of his hand is a feverish blur, his words half-gasped. ″That you give yourself up so prettily. It's like you were made for it. Made for us.″ 

Taron swallows. ″Maybe I was,″ he says, and Colin tightens his hand and groans and comes in sticky pulses all over his stomach and chest.

For a moment there is nothing but the sound of Colin's breathing, nothing but his eyes locked hot and fierce on Taron's face. ″Darling boy,″ Colin says, and oh, Taron is never going to get tired of that, literally never. ″Did you mean it?″ 

″Yes,″ Taron says, ″yes, _yes_ ,″ and then Colin's hands are cupping his face, sticky with come but Taron can't even remotely care because Colin is kissing him and kissing him, holding him close like he's the most precious thing on Earth.


End file.
